


Our opposite number

by Exostrike



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Hogwarts Letters, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25269382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exostrike/pseuds/Exostrike
Summary: A perfectly normal family in a perfectly normal London suburb recieved a mysterious letter from a place called Hogwarts. Unfortunately the father of this family worked for her majesty's  security service. This caused all sorts of trouble.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	1. The Letter

I was having breakfast and keeping an eye on the time when I heard the letter box clatter.  “The postman?” my wife Edith asked, looking up from a magazine.

“Can’t be,” I pointed out though soft cereal. “He’s already been.” I pointed to the small pile of envelopes on the sideboard.

“I’ll go and look,” she said, getting up and heading to the front door. “It's probably just junk mail.”

“We should really get one of those stickers,” I suggested. Not that it would do any good of course.

I heard Edith pick something up and start heading back. “Five minute warning, Timothy!” she said as she passed the stairs.

“Alright mum!” our some Timothy called back. I smiled with pride for a second. Timothy had a good kid, kind, respectful, and good grades. A bright future ahead of him. As it should be they’d spend a long time planning it out.

“So what was it?” I asked as Edith entered the room.

“A letter,” she said, brandishing said object. “Addressed to Timothy.”

“What?”

“I know right? Full name and address. Even got a seal on the back.” She showed me the wax sealing the envelope.

“It's probably another public school sending out feelers,” I suggested, taking another spoonful of cereal. “Bit bloody late though, we chose months ago. Still rude to address it to him directly.”

“Looks hand delivered, there’s no stamp,” she commented as she opened the letter. She pulled out two pieces of paper and read the first. I saw her face frown in puzzlement as she read.

“Something the matter?” I asked.

“I think it's some kind of prank,” she replied and handed me the letter. I took it and read it.

“Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry” said the headline at the top of the page in green ink, complete with a detailed coat of arms involving a loin, snake, badger and eagle surrounding a capital H. A bit tacky but I’d seen worse. “Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards),” it continued. Sounds like a lord of the rings character, no proofreading skills either given the world salad of Mugwump, weird given how correct everything else was. “Dear Mr Timothy Carter, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.”

“Must be the work of some crank,” I said, not even bothering to read the rest. We certainly had never heard of the place, let alone applied for Timothy to join. “School of witchcraft and wizardry, never heard of so much rubbish. Certainly gone all in on it,” I added, checking the second piece of a paper, a long list of ‘magical’ items and spell books. Whoever had written it should have become a writer.

“But the question is how did they get Timothy’s name and address,” Edith pointed out.

“It could be one of Timothy’s friends, some kind of chain letter thing,” I suggested off the top of my head.

“Don’t be ridiculous, none of Timothy’s friends would do something like that,” she dismissed the suggestion.

“You don’t think some,” she paused for a second. “That some kind of pervert got hold of his details from the school?” she continued.

“And used it to send a letter that no one, even a child would really fall for?” I pointed out, sure there was a date in the letter but that was months away, Timothy wouldn’t even remember about it if he read it today, which I certainly wouldn’t let him.

“You don’t think it has something to do with your work?” she suggested.

“Don’t be silly,” I cut her off before she went down that train of thought. “It's probably just some sad loony lost in his own fantasy world that just got lucky. Let's just forget about it.”

With that I trusted the letter away into my pocket and got up from the table. Going to the hall and started pulling on my coat. “Timothy!” I call up the stairs. “Come and give your father a kiss before he leaves,” I called out.

“Coming Dad!” he replied, bounding down the stairs and waiting by the umbrella stand. I bent down and let him kiss me on the cheek while I tousled his hair, still slightly wet.

“Now Timothy,” I said as I adjusted his collar. “Have a good day at school today and enjoy yourself.”

“Thanks Dad, love you,” he replied.

“You too son,” I replied, checking my watch. Running a little late but still on time for the train. I moved to kiss Edith as she handed me my briefcase. Her concerned eyes showed she was still thinking about the letter. “Look,” I started knowing she’d worry about it all day. “If it's really concerning you I’ll ring the school during the day and ask about it,” I said.

“Ask about what?” Timothy asked.

“Just adult stuff,” she said to him. “You right I’m probably just being paranoid,” she muttered as I opened the front door.

“You’ve just been reading too many scare stories in the papers,” I replied, waving to both of them as I closed the door behind me.

It was a five minute drive to the station and another three quarters of an hour on a packed commuter train before I was in central London, walking along the streets with thousands of other office workers in the rush hour crush. Like so many of them I entered a grey nondescript stone building, reached my fabric office cubicle, turning on my always overheating computer and starting reviewing the reports the department had been producing all week. Reports with titles like “continued espionage activity of former Warsaw pact countries” and “Findings of interaction with former enemy informants.” I’m not a spy you understand. I’m an analyst. I turn data that’s given to me into actionable information and present it. Just said data is a bit more sensitive than the quarterly sales numbers.

Still as I worked my mind kept slipping back to that letter in my coat pocket. I should just call the school and ask them about it but what Edith had said struck a chord. The letter had seemed too earnest and professional to be the work of some crank, yet there was no obvious sign of malice in it. Perhaps this was some weird roundabout way of getting at first my family and then me. Nonsense, I mentally rejected the thought, you don’t produce moles by claiming their child is a wizard.

I was in the break room getting a cup of tea after another stressful preparation meeting for the department reorganisation that I ended up staring at an information poster. ‘If there is a possibility, act on it’ it read, a faded hand grabbing a cartoon spy. My training instructor had said the same, though usually about how the pretty women you met at the beach was in fact a honey pot. Still I suppose I might as well follow the advice, even if it makes me look like an idiot. Returning to my desk I flicked through my Rolodex for the number for housekeeping.

I’ve never liked dealing with housekeeping, or human resources as they were officially called. Despite what they said about confidentiality, everyone knew anything said to them ended up on your file. Still I thought as I got the message on my pager saying my appointment was ready, they were discrete about things.

The woman smiled as I opened the door to the office I had been instructed to enter. “Come in Mr Carter!” she said, not entirely persuading me she hadn’t read my name off her computer. “Sit down please,” she added as I closed the door, gesturing to the chair in front of her desk. I sat down in the slightly uncomfortable chair. “I understand you indicated a problem with your family,” she said reading off her screen.

“Something like that,” I tried to explain, talking about this seemed to stupid. “It's just that my son received a strange letter this morning,” I was finally able to say, it seems better to build up to it.

“Did it contain a financial offer for information, or a threat against you or your family?” the woman asked, her voice hardening subtly. “If so you should have brought it to the crisis team.”

“Well that’s the thing, it doesn’t,” I explained before she tried to escalate things. “It's just this weird baloney about magical schools,” I continued, pulling the letter out of my pocket. “I know I probably shouldn’t even bother the service with this but you know, you can never be too sure.” I offered her the letter, hoping she’d only consider me an overly paranoid parent.

She gave me a slightly annoyed look as she took the letter and read it. Her also also ruffled in puzzlement and perhaps a little derision as he read both parts of the letter. She looked up as if she was about to dress me down for wasting her time when she stopped as if remembering something. She shifted over to her computer and started typing. After a few seconds she reached over to pick up the phone. Oh god she's not calling medical to see if I’d had a mental breakdown I thought for a split second. Then she started calling an outside line. Why was she doing that, I thought. Protocol said to only call a non-government line from one of the specific phone rooms. I heard the phone ring for perhaps two rings before something picked it up. “Hello,” she said, somewhat uncertain. “Does the name Hogwarts mean anything to do you?”

There was an immediate response on the other end, the woman pulling the phone away from her ear slightly. “This is Halley, HR at Gower Street, Sir,” she replied, clearly sensing authority from the other end. “I have a case here that's a little bit weird. I ran a search in the area system and got a standing order to refer any incident to this address,” she explained. The other end said something and she looked up at me. “I’m not sure I can do that, sir. I’m going to need a code,” she replied. Authorisation codes were a useful way to declare your rank and clearance to someone else remotely, though what was so important she needed to ask for one. After a few seconds the voice on the other end said something and she started typing numbers into her computer. The computer beeped, confirming it was a valid code. “Alright I have a Mr William Carter here,” she said. I almost gasped at the sudden breach of confidentiality. “He came in saying that his son received a letter this morning from this Hogwarts place,” she continued laying out the situation in simple terms. “Yes he is here with me now,” she added, looking up at me silently fuming after a question from the other end. “Yes. Yes. I understand, sir. Goodbye,” she said, listening to the voice on the other end before putting the phone down.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I almost shouted.

“Don’t blame me!” she snapped back. “I’m required to break confidentiality on issues discussed here if ordered too by higher authority. That authorisation code certainly had that authority,” she continued.

“So what did they say?” I asked, trying to calm down. It wasn’t really her fault, but whatever I’d gotten myself into had clearly been kicked up a notch.

“Only that you are to wait here. They will come here,” she replied.

I ended up waiting for quite some time. I couldn’t go back to my desk so I just sat around in limbo. The woman, Halley, didn’t make much small talk, pulled out of a gardening magazine to pass the time. Clearly she did not want to be drawn into this any further. Meanwhile I was left stewing over the situation. Why were people so interested in this bloody crank letter? Was it some weird code phrase or something. Looking at the time I got up to go to the break room, if I was going to waste the day sitting around I could at least have a cup of tea.

I was just coming back from the break room when I saw them coming the other way. Three men walking briskly up the corridor. One of them was a slightly grey haired gentleman with glasses, clearly not a member of service judging by the hastily filled in visitor’s tag around his neck. The other looked like a man for the operations side of the service, you get to recognise the type, smart, respectable, almost pleasant but with a hint of hardness just below the surface. But it was the man leading them that caught my eye. The way he strode, how his hard eyes scanned the corridor, his stern expression, it all radiated cold, hard authority. There was no doubt in my mind that these men had come for me.

I scrabbled back to the office before they seemed to spot me. Barely a second after I’d sat down there was a sharp rap at the door and they entered, not bothering for a response. “The letter,” their leader ordered in a cold voice. Halley silently handed over the letter. The leader read it carefully for a moment before handing it to the two others. They poured over the pages, The grey haired man even examining the wax seal on the envelope with a magnifying loupe.

“It looks genuine,” he said, giving his apparent opinion when the leader silently looked at him.

“You’re sure? We’ve been fooled before,” the other agent pointed out.

“Of course it is,” the leader replied dismissively. “You only have to look at it to know this is the real deal.”

“I see they’ve changed the reading list for dark arts again,” the grey haired man said, pulling out a notebook and starting to write down notes. “Who’s the father?”

“That would be me,” I said, realising I’d been silent all this time.

The three men turn to look at me, acknowledging me for the first time. “So you must be Carter,” their leader said stepping forward.

“That’s right, and you are?” I asked, holding out my hand.

“Call me Moss,” their leader said, shaking my hand more out of politeness than anything. “This letter,” he continued tapping the piece of paper. “How did it arrive?”

“It just came through the letterbox, my wife picked it up,” I explained.

“Just that?” Moss responded as if surprised. “Someone didn’t bring the letter to you?”

“No. It did look hand delivered but there was no one at the door when my wife went to it or when I left.” The two other men looked at Moss oddly as if I was lying.

“Interesting,” he noted and turned to Halley. “I will need his file,” he said.

“I don’t think...” she began but Moss gave her a look that told her where the conversation would go. “Very well, sir,” she continued, accepting the inevitable and handed over a large dark green personnel folder. I was surprised my file was that big.

Moss flipped it open and glanced over the summary page before handing it to the brown haired agent.

“You don’t have any unusual relatives?” he asked me. “People the family avoids talking about?” Why the hell were they taking this so seriously? The tone in Moss’s voice was if I had just been accused of leaking information to the Russians and he was my interrogator.

“My wife has a cousin,” I admitted, better to answer the question truthfully, hopefully he’d back off. Moss raised his eyebrow for a second. “Drugs in the 60’s,” I continued.

“A legitimate reason,” Moss replied, turning to the brown haired man. “Anything?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” the other agent replied.

“There never is, but I feel he’s telling the truth,” Moss commented, as the grey haired man carefully put the letter and envelope in a ziplock bag. “I think we will have to continue this conversation somewhere else.” He turned to head to the door.

“I can’t leave,” I protested. “I’ve got reports to get out by the end of the day.”

“Can you inform Mr Carter’s department that he will be taking the day off,” Moss said to Halley, ignoring my protests. “Make sure he does not lose holiday time.”

“Surely this is a matter better left for the police? Its just a stupid letter from some saddo,” I said, try to remind them of what we were talking about.

“I’m afraid Mr Carter this is not a matter for the police,” Moss said, giving me an almost withering “This is the matter of the highest security. And I must insist that you come with us.” I sensed the agent standing just off my shoulder. The grey haired man glanced down at his notebook in apprehension. It was clear that the next request would not be voluntary.

“Fine. I’ll come with you,” I said, allowing myself to be escorted out of the door.


	2. The Journey

With barely a detour to get my coat I was bundled into the back of a cheap Rover saloon in the basement garage. It didn’t have any of the usual security badges but was still waved through the exit without inspection. “I’m sorry I had to go through the tough guy act,” Moss said as we turned onto the street, shifting in the seat next to me to face me. “It's just that there are some quite sensitive details we couldn’t discuss in the building.”

“Like what?” I asked. There was no secret in the world that couldn’t be discussed in the building. I saw the other agent’s eyes, who was driving flick up to the rear view mirror.

“You son is a wizard,” Moss said in a matter of fact way.

For a horrible moment I thought this had all been some kind of elaborate prank by someone in the department and that Jeremy Beadle was about to burst out of hiding. I let out a little chuckle, expecting Moss to crack up. But the sound died in my throat as he simply looked at me in silence. “My god you're serious,” I muttered.

“Of course I am,” he replied, clearly enjoying the moment. “You must know we never joke around in this business.”

“But magic doesn’t exist,” I protested.

“I’m afraid magic very much does exist,” Moss explained, leaning in a bit. “Kept secret from the general population by the magic using community. You know how things work.” My mind reeled under the suggestion, I mean the services had covered up a lot of things over the years but they were always small scale stuff, this, assuming Moss was actually telling the truth and no crazy seemed too big even for us. Then again who knew what magic could do.

“And you are a wizard?” I asked, it seemed the logical reason why Moss knew about all this, some other government agency perhaps. The two men up front look at each other.

“I wish,” Moss said, chuckling to himself. “No, the magical community views themselves as superior to us normal folk. They even have a word for us. Muggle. Rather racist when you think about it. They practice a strict policy of segregation. The non-magical world mustn’t know that magic exists and any breaches in the secrecy are sealed. Any of them trying to tell us gets prison, or worse and we get our memories erased.” I glanced out of the window half expecting to see unicorns running along the pavement.

“Do they do this to protect us, or them?” I asked. Moss smiled.

“I see your analyst brain at work. We believe they do it to protect themselves. They fear we would exterminate them. Though a few do seem to believe they are protecting us from the dangers of the magical world.”

“Then how do we know about them?” I pointed out, if these wizards had the ability to remove memories and who knows what else how did we know.

“They have not entirely cut off communication with us,” Moss explained. “Their leader, the minister of magic, an illegitimate attempt to add the legitimacy of the crown to their administration, visits the prime minister occasionally. Usually when there is a change in either office, and when they want something from us. I believe the Queen received a delegation after her coronation. The state never truly forgets. Since they broke off contact in the 18 th century…”

“17 th century sir,” the grey haired man in the front passenger seat corrected.

“Thank you, Richard,” Moss said. “Since then there has always been someone in the British state who knows trying to keep tabs on them.” He waved his hand towards the two men up front, “We are the modern iteration. A small interdepartmental working group. Finch from the security service,” he pointed to the agent driving. “Richard from the public records office,” he indicated the grey haired man. “Along with a few other people from the secret intelligence service, police, home office, military, all the necessary departments”

“Why haven’t they shut you down if you’re breaking their secrecy?” I asked.

“There is a long standing unofficial agreement between us. A quid pro quo that if we keep our activities low key and restrict knowledge about magic to the absolute need to know they will pretend not to know that we know that they exist,” Moss explained. I tried to get my mind around the idea, deals like this were always a pain to understand. “Apparently it maintains internal support for their segregation stance. Plus it dark wizards would raise hell,” he added.

“Dark wizards?” I said. Moss pursed his lips. Clearly he had let something slip.

“An extremist political faction, believes in the supremacy of wizards over non-magical peoples and that they should rule the world, hatred of magical users born from non-magical families. The usual fascist ideas with different targets.

“Magical users from non-magical families? Like my son?” I asked.

“Thankfully the movement has never seized power,” Moss quickly assured me. “As far as we can tell its last iteration collapsed over a decade ago. Though non-magic born prejudice seems to have a long history in their society.” Great, these wizards wanted Timothy to go to a school full of racists.

“But Timothy isn’t a wizard,” I pointed out. I’d never seen him do anything supernatural after all.

“That letter begs to differ. Hogwarts is the main wizarding school in this country that we know of. They have the support of the ministry of magic so it's safe to say if they think your son is a wizard he is one,” Moss replied.

“But how would they know?” I added then realised the obvious answer.

“Magic of course,” Moss replied. “As far as we can tell the power of magic is limitless, thankfully the required effort and preparation can be extensive. Most cannot make themselves immune to bullets at the drop of a hat.” Why do I get the feeling he knows that from personal experience I thought. “But think, has Timothy done anything unusual, something you couldn’t quite explain? It seems that young magic users initially use magic subconsciously. We think the ministry can detect these somehow,” he continued.

I thought for a while. I didn’t know what would be considered magic or just luck. Possibilities flashed before my eyes ranging from Timothy using telepathy to him summoning a tree to grow from the ground to catch a friend that had fallen from a cliff. I pushed thoughts ideas away, Timothy didn’t go around with his friends climbing cliffs. “I suppose there are the carvings,” I said eventually.

“Carvings?” Moss asked, clearly confused.

“These little wooden carvings Timothy have been producing in art class. I’ve been meaning to show them off. Such intricate shapes and detail, cubes that seemed to twist in on themselves. The teacher said he’d never seen anything like it. I always thought he meant from a child. I’d asked Timothy how he did it and he said he simply put his mind to it,” I explained. At the time I had simply considered it some impressive modernist inspired work from a magazine but perhaps there was something more there.

“Possible,” Moss admitted, not entirely convinced. “Usually these effects seem to be more large scale than that but we know wizards can create objects we consider impossible. It's possible these carvings have some magical element. We would need to inspect them.”

I thought about that for a second. I’d always tried to keep my personal life away from the service. “How do you know about all of this? I thought you said these wizards were an enclosed society?” I pointed out.

“Long years of study and research,” Moss explained. “Occasionally we strike gold. A similar letter to yours was handed in to a post office by a passer-by for example. Most of the rest of the time it's trawling police’s crazy draws and trying to extrapolate. For a society obsessed with secrecy they do let so many minor incidents happen. They must assume no one will ever actually believe.”

“Expect Sunday Sports readers,” I joked.

“You joke but we do have a subscription,” Moss said. “But in truth our main problem has always been the lack of sources. No wizard is going to talk to us of course and getting to a young wizard from a non-magical family first was always thought improbable. At least until now.” He looked at me with a pleasing eye.

“I suppose it is,” I said looking away and out the window. It sounded like he wanted me to spy on these wizards. “By the way, where are we going?” I added. I’d assumed they had been taking me to their office or satellite facility, but I was pretty sure I recognised the street outside.

“We’re going to your home,” Moss explained. “We took the liberty of noting it down from your file,”

“But why?”

“I feel it would be beneficial to see Timothy. To see if he is aware of his own powers. Kids often keep secrets from their parents” Moss pointed out. I didn’t like the idea of Moss interrogating Timothy but I got the logic. Perhaps my son did know more than he had told us.

Eventually we pulled into my road and parked opposite the house. “Nice place,” Moss commented as we stepped out of the car.

“Thank you,” I replied. It had certainly cost me enough. “I’m afraid Timothy will still be a school and Edith is at work so I’m not sure this trip was really worth it,” I pointed out as we crossed the road.

“Oh I don’t think so,” Moss said, looking to his left. I turned to see two unusually dressed men approaching us. “It appeared we were expected.”

I turned to face the approaching men. The first looked like a nondescript civil servant dressed in a rather old fashioned suit and tie, someone perhaps heading to retirement after years of service. The subtle fire in his eyes in the middle of a rather grey face hinted at something more about him. However he was totally overshadowed by his companion. A tall thin gentleman and while clearly elderly judging by his long grey beard still had a full head of hair and strode with vigour and purpose. His suit was a weird mix of loud and restrained, purple fabric with a cut straight out of the 60’s. It also had that air of being rarely used, yet the man was still able to make it look almost stylish. I’d had classed him as a rich hippy that had never grown out of it but there was such a look of wisdom on his face I could tell his man was an academic. They both screamed one word in my mind, wizard.

  
  
  


Moss stepped in front of the two men’s path. “Good afternoon,” he said coldly to them. The two men stopped, the man in purple looked pained at Moss’s appearance while the grey faced man showed no reaction.

“Are these wizards?” I asked, pausing for a second before saying the last word, stepping forward.

“Correct,” Moss stated, keeping his eye on the two men. “I believe this is Albus Dumbledore. Headmaster of Hogwarts,” he continued, pointing towards the man in purple.

“And a pleasant greeting to you sirs,” Dumbledore responded, his voice surprisingly warm and friendly for the situation.

“And this is I believe one of our opposite number,” Moss continued in his cold voice looking at the grey faced man.

“Call me Flocks,” the man responded in an equally cold voice. Finch stood behind us, hands behind his back, while Richards waited by the car. You could feel the tension in the air.

Dumbledoor stepped forward. “Mr Carter, it is good to finally meet you,” he said, holding out his hand to me, clearly attempting to diffuse the situation.

“Greetings,” I said, stepping forward to take the hand. His handshake was firm but friendly.

“I must apologise deeply for this situation,” he continued. “If I had been fully aware of your status and occupation I would have ensured that our letter of invitation was delivered in person.”

“Bullshit,” Moss stated. “We know from the Penrose incident that you always start with personal contact with non-magical families. You just wanted to see what his reaction would be and whether he could go to higher authority.” Flocks made a polite cough while Dumbledore glanced at him, a pained look on his face.

“That would be a grave breach of protocol,” Flocks noted.

“And yet here we are,” Moss pointed out.

“As I said I deeply regret this situation,” Dumbledore said. “Though perhaps we can discuss this inside? The front porch is never a good place for sensitive discussions.”

“A good suggestion,” I said, looking at Moss who simply shrugged. I started pulling out my keys, only to hear the locks on the door click open. I touched the door and it swung open. “How the...?” I asked out loud and turned to see Dumbledore tucking something back into his coat. He smiled as if he was an uncle that had pulled a fifty pence piece from behind my ear.

“As a demonstration of magic goes it isn’t much,” he admitted. “But I thought it appropriate.”

“certainly is,” I muttered, stepping inside. He’d even dis-activated the burglar alarm, and all that in a few seconds. No wonder Moss was afraid of them.

“And there was I hoping to see you turn into a cat,” Moss commented as the group entered the house.


	3. The Meeting

We sat down in the sitting room. Dumbledore and Flocks on the main sofa across from the fireplace and the television, Moss and I on the second sofa while Finch and Richards sat in the bay window chairs. Finch positioned himself to stare at the two wizards while Richards pulled out his notebook, ready to document anything said. “I suppose you better show off Timothy’s carvings,” Moss suggested, shifting a cushion around.

“Carvings?” Dumbledore asked.

“It's these carvings Timothy made,” I explained, getting up to pick one of them off the mantelpiece. “Moss suggested they might have some kind of magical element,” I explained handing the swirl like sculpture to Moss, who after a cursory examination returned it. Dumbledore gave it a much more in-depth examination however.

“Yes, most impressive. A proto Brynn cube if I’m not mistaken,” he said putting the object on the table.

“A what?” I asked. It wasn’t even cube shaped.

“A low level magical device, useful in optical spells,” Dumbledore explained, reaching into his suit. Finch reached into his own suit but Moss raised a finger. Dumbledore withdrew an intricately carved wooden stick, a magic wand I assumed. “But with the appropriate incantation, it can be activated,” he continued and muttered something. The carving suddenly shifted on the table, the wood reforming into the form a perfect hollow cube for a few seconds before returning to its original shape. “Holds the spell surprisingly well for its construction,” Dumbledore commented as he put his hand away. “Your child may have a strong future as a shaper.”

“And that was how you were able to detect him,” I asked, somewhat flabbergasted at what had just happened.

“Well I believe the first case of your son using magic was when he summoned a low level electric shock during a school yard fight with a bully. Thankfully the low level nature of the event and no one recognising the magical element the ministry decided an early intervention was not necessary,” Dumbledore explained.

“Fascinating,” Moss commented, Richards scribbling away like mad.

“Timothy got bullied?” Was all I could say, he had never said anything about it.

“Perhaps we should refrain from revealing any more information about our capabilities,” Flock said. Dumbledore looked at him slightly irked, clearly he was not used to staying strictly on point.

“So Mr Dumbledore,” I said, trying to take control of the conversation. “You seem very certain that Hogwarts is the right school for Timothy but you haven’t shown me any prospectus.” If Timothy was going to go to this school I’d at least like to know what he would be learning.

“As Hogwarts is the official school of wizardry in this country such a thing has never been required,” he admitted. Great so it's a state school I thought. “But I can explain the overall curriculum. The first two years are focused on developing the basics of magic, transfiguration, charms, potions, astronomy, herbology, and the history of magic. In the third year the students starts additional subjects of their choice and ability with major exams taking place in their fifth and seventh years, giving them the qualifications to succeed in their chosen careers.”

“I believe you left defence against the dark arts off your list,” Moss noted.

“I did not wish to alarm. The name can sometimes be a problem,” Dumbledore admitted.

“What about english and maths?” I asked.

“We are focused on practical applications at Hogwarts but we do not ignore them. Students are expected to write academic style papers as part of the 10 hours a week homework set, and transfiguration, charms, and potions all incorporate mathematical elements again from a practical standpoint,” he explained. Clearly there would be no room for the classics.

“What about science?” I asked, somewhat aware of the irony of asking this question to a wizard. Dumbledore smiled, clearly also seeing the irony.

“We do not teach the subject in itself. But any of the underlying principles are taught as part of other subjects, chemistry in potions, biology in herbology, even the observable elements physics is taught in astronomy, though I’ll admit that Einstein got his sums wrong,” he replied.

I paused for a second about how our understanding of the world couldn’t coexist with magic and then concentrated on the issue at hand. “So how does the school operate? I noticed references to uniforms and clothing. Is it a boarding school?” I asked, we hadn’t planned to send Timothy to a boarding school, he would not cope well there.

“That is correct Hogwarts operates as a boarding school for all its students. We feel it promotes friendship and strengthens the bonds of the magical community,” Dumbledore explained.

“Are there holidays?” I asked innocently, it sounded like they wanted to cement Timothy into their society and away from us.

“Of course,” Dumbledore sounded almost surprised. “Students are allowed to choose to return home for the Christmas and Easter holidays and are required during summer. Please understand we do not wish to keep you from your child.” he explained.

“Can we visit at other times?” I asked.

“Parental visits are usually discouraged outside of graduation and extenuating circumstances. However we do encourage students to write via owl as often as they like.” he said. Well that seemed to go against what he had just said.

“Owl?” I asked, confused.

“They use them as an independent postal delivery system,” Moss chimed in. “Occasionally one of them gets hit by a truck and someone hands in the letter to the police. Had some good intel that way.”

“Yes,” Flocks said, almost smiling. “You do an excellent job at steaming them open before returning them. Unfortunately that does nothing about the charms.”

“No telephone?” I asked, even the boarding school we’ve looked at had telephones.

“I’m afraid we don’t have much non-magical infrastructure at the school. The school is somewhat remote,” Dumbledore admitted.

“How remote are we talking about?” I asked. It sounded like it was on some hidden continent or something.

“A castle deep in the Scottish highlands,” Moss answered before Dumbledore could reply.

“Quite,” Dumbledore said. “And the facility iterates its request that you cease overflying aircraft over the school,” a note of annoyance creeping into his voice.

“I have no power over the RAF. They operate where they please. It is officially the country's airspace after all,” Moss explained, shrugging his hand. “Still we always make sure they happen during the summer holidays.”

“I notice you made reference to Christmas and Easter,” I noted. “What is your school’s religious policy?” I had no idea what kind of weird cults these wizards believed in and there was no way I was going to let Timothy grow up a satanist.

“Hogwarts is a secular institution, though we do celebrate many holidays,” Dumbledore explained. “We do provide places of worship of a variety of religions. Is your son a religious child?”

“You’re down as a non practising Church of England,” Moss noted, clearly having a good memory from his quick look at my file. “Which basically means nothing.”

“It's more about the moral character,” I tried to explain.

“We pride ourselves on the highest moral standards at Hogwarts. We always aim to imbue a sense of dedication, resourcefulness, chivalry and wit into our students,” Dumbledore explained.

“Standards that so many of us cannot reach,” Moss commented.

“I mean that sounds good,” I said, it did seem like this school at least tried to be a good place. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad for Timothy.

Moss smiled and leaned forward, his eyes focused on Flocks. “So now that we’ve gotten the preliminaries are out of the way. Let's get down to business,” he said as if everything up to this point hadn’t mattered. “Direct direction?”

“Out of the question,” Flocks stated. Direction of what? I thought confused

“Direction by the father?” Moss continued, barely letting Flocks finish.

“Again, unacceptable. There will be no encouragement to break the International Statute of Secrecy. Not least because of the penalties against the child.”

“Excuse me what are you talking about?” I asked, dreading the likely answer.

“We’re haggling about how much information we’ll be allowed to get out of Timothy,” Moss explained. “It seems having him as an active source is out of the question, so we will have to be content with passive data collection.”

“No!” I suddenly burst out. “Enough of this, Timothy isn’t going!”

“What?!” Moss said, snapping his head around.

“You heard me,” I said. Moss talking about Timothy like that had snapped me back to reality. I’d let Dumbledore sweet talk me into almost agreeing to let Timothy become a wizard and now Moss was talking about using him as a spy. I’d always wanted him to avoid the business and I wasn’t going to have him dragged into this. I’d never wanted any of this to happen and it was time I made a stand against it. “He is not going to Hogwarts!” Everyone looked at him like I’d gone mad.

“Mr Carter,” Dumbledore said, choosing his words carefully. “I know this is a bit of a shock but Timothy must learn to control his powers in the proper environment, for his own sake as much as anyone.”

“Can’t you do that via night school, or summer schools?” I asked. Why should I entrust

Timothy’s entire future to these people when they would barely tell me anything about what he would really be learning.

“I’m afraid magic cannot be learned at night school,” Dumbledore tried to explain. “Despite what some in the magical education industry might claim.”

“Then he won’t learn it at all,” I said, raising my voice. Though I could tell they would keep on pressing me but I’d made up my mind.

“Perhaps some tea might defuse the situation,” Moss said suddenly, standing up.

“I can produce some,” Dumbledore said, reaching into his pocket. The Finch flinched again, Dumbledore paused.

“I’m sure Mrs Carter would not like her crockery teleported across the house,” Moss pointed out. “Perhaps Mr Carter can show me where they are stored,” he eyed me intently.

“Some biscuits too?” Dumbledore added as we walked past. “Hobnobs if you have any. For some reason I can never get them to taste right.”

“It's the industrial chemicals,” Moss commented as he exited the room.

The kitchen was tense as I showed Moss where the tea equipment was. “I know what you’re going to say,” I said as he filled the kettle straight from the tap instead of the water filter. “The answer is no.” I didn’t care what any of them said, Timothy was going to live a normal life.

“Mr Carter, you took an oath that you would do whatever was necessary to protect your country,” Moss said, switching the kettle on. “And Timothy represents the greatest intelligence gain against the magical community in a generation. You must’ve known this life requires sacrifices.”

“Fuck you!” I spat in anger. “That oath was never about sacrificing my own family, my own children.” Sure people did a lot in the name of the service but there were limits to any man’s loyalty.

Moss simply sighed. “I notice your section is planning job cuts,” he said suddenly.

“What of it?” I asked, thrown off by the shift in direction.

“I have the ears of people high up in the service. I can make sure you survive, perhaps even a promotion,” he pointed out. “I can also ensure your name is top of the list to be fired,” he added, calmly pouring the water into the teapot.

“Are you threatening me?” I asked in shock.

“Yes,” he stated matter of factly, looking coldly into my eye. In that moment I realised just what kind of man I was talking too. Moss didn’t give a damn about me, or Timothy for that matter. He only viewed him as an asset to get information about the wizarding world and he would stop at nothing to ensure that Timothy went to Hogwarts. Even if it meant ruining my career to do it. I noticed how his hand was still gripping the half filled kettle of boiling water.

What the fuck was I going to do to do. If I stuck to my guns Moss would have me chucked out the service. I would struggle to find work if I also received a bad reference, which he would ensure. It would be difficult to keep up with the mortgage and Timothy’s school fees. What with the downturn and everything, this could ruin me. And all that because I wouldn’t let Timothy go to the bloody school. Still I wasn’t going to put my career ahead of my son, even if it did mean financial ruin and being unable to provide for him. I let out a gut wrenching sob and looked up at Moss, defeated. With barely a flicker of a smile he resumed pouring the kettle. “Is this what it's like?” I asked, trying to regain my composure. “The operational side of the business?” I had never looked too closely at the operational parts of the files.

“They can be worse,” Moss admitted. “This was quite pleasant all things considered. But I realise this was a big emotional decision for you.” It didn’t feel like that to me I thought as I got the milk out from the fridge but I kept quiet. Wordlessly Moss carried the tray back to the living room.

The room was quiet when we entered, everyone apart from Dumbledore was eyeing each other carefully while he was looking at the painting over the fireplace. They all turned to look at me as I put the tray down on the coffee table. “I’m afraid we only have custard creams,” I muttered as I poured out the tea.

“They will do nicely,” Dumbledore said, reaching into the packet.

“I have reconsidered,” I announced, trying to keep the quiver in my voice hidden. “Timothy can go to Hogwarts.”

“I realise this must have been a difficult decision,” Dumbledore consoled me, looking at Moss like he knew full well what he had done to me. Moss feigned ignorance in his face as he sat down. “But it is the correct choice for Timothy’s future,” Dumbledore continued.

“Of course,” I muttered, drinking some tea. It was too hot but it did drown my sorrows.

With Timothy’s fate decided Moss took over the conversation again. “So where were we?” he said, turning to Flocks.

“We had just ruled out direct encouragement and direction,” he replied.

“Of course, so that brings us to data collection. Mr Carter giving us information the child gives him?”

“He will also be required to sign the statute of secrecy,” Flock pointed out. “The penalties may be less severe but they are still significant and any attempt to communicate with non-magical authorities would constitute a breach.”

“So we will have to cease explicit communications about this after this meeting,” Moss noted. “But suppose if Mr Carter left letters from Timothy about his time at the school and being a wizard in his study and a burglar broke into the house, a clean job mind you, and happened to come across said letters while he was searching for valuables, that he failed to find of course. Would that count as a breach?”

“On a technical level it would not violate the statute of secrecy,” Flock admitted after a moment's consideration. “Many low level breeches require no action as the person simply explains away the experience with a non magical explanation or falls into conspiracy theories. Dealing with them would simply be a waste of manpower.”

“Yes, sometimes it's easier to just let sleeping dogs lie,” Moss commented. Plus it leaves clues for him I noted, looking over at Dumbledore eating a biscuit. While his expression said nothing, his eyes suggested he found this a distasteful affair. A wonder how much arm twisting the ministry of magic had done to him to agree to all of this.

“Does Timothy have an interest in photography?” Moss asked me suddenly.

“Not really, I admitted. I’ve let him take some snaps on holiday but beyond that…”

“Get him a camera this weekend,” Moss ordered. “We will ensure that you receive proper photographic training and we hope you are able pass some of it onto your son.”

“But why?” I asked before I realised why.

“A photo can tell us more than a thousand word,” Moss pointed out.

“Though they should be developed in none-magical fluids. Moving pictures would be hard to explain away,” Flocks commented.

“They’re a bitch to photograph anyway,” Moss noted. “But I’m sure Timothy will want to show his parents he’s having a fun time.” Like you really care I thought.

“So now the big question,” Moss said, leaning forward again. “How long will this deal last?”

“Until his final year,” Flocks stated. “Beyond that I feel it would not be appropriate, plus I expect he wouldn’t be telling his parents about every little detail by that age anyway.”

“All sources are finite. Still it gives us a couple of good years,” Moss commented.

“Of course we may terminate this agreement at any time,” Flocks warned. “Especially if we feel that Timothy has been excessively encouraged to transfer information or has been approached to act more actively.”

“How nicely ambiguous,” Moss commented dryly. “You’ve got all of that Richard?” he asked.

“I think so,” Richards replied, tearing a page out of his notebook. “If we can review?” he added, offering the page to Moss. Moss scanned it before handing it to Flocks. Flocks took it and looked at it for a second before disintegrating it with a flick of his hands and a puff of purple flame. It didn’t even leave any ash on the arm rest.

“Shall we shake on it?” Moss asked.

“I suppose we should,” Flocks said, holding out his hand.

“In a new spirit of unofficial co-operation,” Moss said, leaning forward to take the hand. It was a functional handshake, with little energy to it.

“Let's not kid ourselves,” Flocks warned as they both drank from their cups of tea.

There was a loud thump. Someone had just opened the front door “Who could that be?” I asked, getting up, confused looks went around the room.

“I believe that would be your wife,” Dumbledore explained nonchalantly. “I look at the decision to summon her here before we meet you to speed things up.”

“You bloody fool,” Moss muttered.

“Hello?” Edith called out from the doorway.

“Hello dear!” I responded, my mind racing. All this time I had paid no thought to how I was going to explain all this to Edith. I would have probably eased her into things slowly. Start off with suggesting an alternative school or something and then lay out the reasons why. But how would I explain Timothy was a wizard. This was all moving too fast.

“Don’t worry Mr Carter,” Dumbledore said, seeing the panic in my eyes. “These things are better faced straight up.”

“The office received a call saying I need to come back,” Edith said and I could hear her taking off her coat. “Did the school have to close or something?” She appeared at the doorway. “Oh!” she added, seeing the group. Everyone tried to act nonchalant, even Moss and Flocks put on passable smiles. “Has something happened?” Edith asked, stepping into the room, concern obvious in her voice.

“Of course not,” I reassured. “Come and sit down dear,” I said looking at where Moss was sitting. He awkwardly got up and stood next to Finch by the mantle piece. “It's about Timothy,” I started as she sat down. “These gentlemen,” I looked darkly at Moss, “and I have been discussing a unique opportunity for Timothy and I’d like you to hear it. Could you start from the beginning?” I added to Dumbledore.

“Certainly,” Dumbledore replied. “I am Albus Dumbledore and I must tell you that your child has a special gift.” Edith took it pretty well all things considered. But as Dumbledore explained about magic and Hogwarts, I looked over to Moss silently looking over us. It was clear our agreement would remain a secret from Edith. It probably wasn’t the right thing to do but being a spy was not always about doing the right thing. I suppose I can really call myself a spy now.


End file.
